In the muted tones of the depth of the night,
I can hear the wordless songs of my sad heart,
telling me there is no one but you,
with whom I can only share my quiet hermitical walk on my long road.
In your obscure dusky sky,
I can hear a chant of a nightingale.
telling me there is no one but you,
who can shake the inert heart of the night by the glee of his melodies.
In the radiant countenance of you resurrected dawn,
when it emerges from the tomb of the last night,
I can see, in its sunny eyes, a glow of hope.
In the delicate droplets of your dew,
whose tears are still on the leaves of your twigs,
I can feel my unquenchable thirst for the day of coming together again.
The day of merging with the bewitching light of your morning.
The bewitching light that illuminates the hearts of the lost ones,
and the ones who are tired of the onerous burdens of this disconsolate world.
I can become full with the pleasant pulse of life that impels me to glorify your beauty,
when I see the pink blooming of your shy flowers.
Your shy flowers which are unable to hide the redness of their cheeks,
when the touches of the fingers of your life-giving spring pass by,
causing the renewed life to rise up from its slumber,
amid your harsh bitter winter forests.